Chapter 1 #4
Béfionn paused at the waterline and looked back at her daughter. “Perhaps I should. I shall consider it.” Then she began to grow in size and, as she did, she smiled down at Scáthach. “Daughter, say yes to the bard.”
Scáthach’s forehead furrowed. “The bard? I have no bard at Dunscáith.”
“Not yet but say yes so you will. He’ll be amusing.” Her voice faded as the goddess dove into the sea, disappearing among the glistening silver of her sturgeons.
* * *
It took longer to climb up the thick stone side of her castle than it did to fly down the wall, but Scáthach enjoyed the burn in her arms, shoulders, and legs.
Though she had not worked up a sweat on the way down, scaling up the fifty-foot rock wall heated her muscles and blood, and as sweat dripped from her body she felt some of the grief of losing her father a second time leave her.
He had loved her and he had loved her mother.
Scáthach would remember him always, as would the Goddess of the Summerlands.
Scáthach reached the toothlike battlements and pulled herself over the edge. Her daughter was by her side in an instant, having operated the pulley system that allowed Scáthach to rappel down and then return up.
“Grandmother seemed pleased with your gift,” Uathach said as she helped her mother step out of the complex rappelling harness. “How did she take the news?”
“It saddened her, but she appreciated hearing it from me. She is off to Valhalla to visit him. Tonight we must burn the thighbones of a sacrificed bull to honor Father and Odin and the Valkyries who escorted him there.”
“Would you like me to choose the bull?” Uathach asked.
Scáthach smiled and nodded. “I would. Then it will be us honoring Ardgeimm together.”
“Did she advise you about the succession?”
“We spoke of it. We agree that I should name Aife queen in my stead,” said Scáthach.
“Woof!” A large blue-gray blur dashed across the rooftop to Scáthach.
For a moment it seemed it would knock Scáthach backward, perhaps even over the side of the battlement, but at her raised hand the big deerhound slid to a sit in front of Scáthach, resting its head, snout pointed up, on her torso.
Scáthach stroked the dog and cooed. “You’re such a good girl, Leannan. The best girl.”
A tall, red-haired woman emerged from the stairwell the dog had sped up. Her gray eyes flashed angrily as she snorted. “She’s spoiled!”
“Tabiti, she sat exactly as I told her to.” Scáthach grinned at the warrior woman who strode across the rooftop to join them.
“And she listened to me not at all when I attempted to keep her from racing here to you,” said Tabiti as she glowered at the dog, who utterly ignored her and lolled an openmouthed smile at Scáthach.
“I am leader of your Shadow Guard. My skills with sword and spear are vast, yet I cannot get your hound to obey me.”
“She only listens to Mother,” Uathach mumbled.
“Because she’s my good girl.” Scáthach patted the dog on her wide head.
Uathach rolled her eyes. “I often think Leannan is more errant child than dog.”
“Well, as you brought up the subject of children . . .” Tabiti paused and rolled her eyes.
Uathach groaned. “Not more warriors attempting to cross the bridge?”
“Just one. The others have given up and are watching him instead of making more attempts.” Tabiti said. “And I will admit that he is quite nice to watch.” She waggled her brows.
“I’m going to break my fast,” Scáthach said as she helped Uathach carefully recoil the ropes. “Send word if he actually succeeds. None have for months.”
“I think this one is different. His name is known.”
“Really? Not just another one from éire?” Uathach asked.
“Oh, this one is from éire. Some may even say—and by some I mean him—that he is éire’s mightiest son.” Tabiti’s lip lifted in a sneer. “But men do exaggerate.”
“Are you going to tell us who he is?” Scáthach asked.
“He says his name is Cuchulainn, and from the look of him he is telling the truth,” said Tabiti.
“I do know that name,” said Uathach. “Isn’t he called the Hero of Ulster?”
Tabiti shrugged. “So they say. But they also say he is young and beautiful. At least they are right about that.”
“Youth and beauty have nothing to do with being a true warrior.” Scáthach made a dismissive gesture. “I’m going to eat. As I said, send word if he crosses the Bridge of Leaps.”
“Unlikely he will. But Cuchulainn is so young and pretty, he brought his own bard with him. Apparently to compose ballads about his training with the Queen of Shadow, the mighty Scáthach.”
Scáthach looked up from the rope coil. “Did you say bard?”
Tabiti’s gray eyes sparkled with amusement. “I did.”
The Queen of Shadow sighed. “My mother . . .” Scáthach muttered, shook her head, and then sighed again. “I’ll join you at the bridge, but only after I eat.”
“No need to rush,” Tabiti said. “How long did it take the last male warrior to cross the bridge?”
“Twenty days. And the current lot camping out there have been trying for twenty-seven days,” Uathach said with a grin.
“But they don’t have their own bards,” Tabiti added, and both women laughed as Scáthach frowned, hearing her mother’s parting words replay in her mind.
Daughter, say yes to the bard . . .